


The Adventure of the Cardboard Box

by Dreaming_in_Circles



Series: As We Fall [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Case Fic, Established Relationship, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:36:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_in_Circles/pseuds/Dreaming_in_Circles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain John Watson finally comes home from deployment and gets stationed near London, of all places. His first thought is that he'll have weekends off-duty, and his second thought is to wonder if Mycroft was involved somehow? In any case, he is so not complaining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone.  
> This is und-bata'd and not Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone. If you see anything glaringly obvious, please point it out in the comments and I will jump to correct it.  
> Furthermore, this is my first attempt at any fanfiction, so if you see anything truly terrible please leave it in the comments and I will do my very best to make it better.  
> This is hopefully going to be the first in a series, but only if people think it's work continuing, so leave a comment or Kudos and I'll go from there.  
> Thanks!

Captain John Watson of the Royal Marine Commandos was the epitome of a soldier. With a strong jaw, rugged good looks, short, sandy hair, and deeply tanned skin, he clearly looked the part. His body was fitter than the preverbal fiddle, and his officer’s mind sharper than a tack. What he lacked in height he made up with heart and character. He was intelligent, strong-willed, and loyal. When he walked through London streets – in or out of uniform – heads always turned.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, looked like the original rebel. His dark hair was unkempt and unruly. The wild curls really needed to be cut down, but he never had the time for that. He was pale, ridiculously tall, and liked to sweep around in his great-coat dramatically. He was also an obsessive sociopath, and it came through clearly.

The two were clearly opposites, so it was a wonder they got along as well as they did. They’d met on a military base called Baskerville, up on the moors. Watson had caught Holmes trespassing, but someone high up the chain had called in and gotten Holmes off and Watson assigned as his escort. The two had stayed in contact after that.

Watson had just gotten back from a tour in Afghanistan, and was stationed near London for training with his team. He sadly didn’t have any shore leave available, and even if he did, now would not have been a good time to take it. But there were always weekends; the two days a week were he could do whatever he wanted.

That was how John ended up standing on the doorstep of 221 Baker St. in uniform, drawing all sorts of unwanted attention. “I should have changed first.” John muttered, keeping his head down and ringing the doorbell again, but he hadn’t expected so many people out on a residential street this late Friday night.   
From what he’d seen of Sherlock in Baskerville and the other times they’d met, John wasn’t really surprised the man didn’t answer the door, though he had hoped Sherlock would make an extra effort for him. He did know John was coming, after all.

The door was finally opened by an older woman dressed nicely, but in an older style. “May I help you?” Her voice was brisk but kind.

“I’m here to see Sherlock Holmes.” John explained. “We’re old friends.”

“Of course dear. Come right in.” She stepped aside and John stepped up and in. “I was just heading out but he’s right upstairs, flat B.”

John nodded. “Thank you ma’am. I’m sure I can find my way, I don’t’ want to keep you.” John shrugged his backpack higher up his shoulder and looked up the stairs then back to the woman.

“Oh please, Mrs. Hudson will do.” She smiled warmly. “I’m Sherlock’s landlady, though sometimes is feels like I’m more of a housekeeper.”

“I can imagine.” John said with a half-smile, half-grimace. He held out his hand, and they shook.  
“Well, I’m sorry to leave you like this, dear, but I really must be going…” Mrs. Hudson trailed off apologetically. 

No, it’s fine, I wouldn’t want to keep you. I’ll probably be here for a while, I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.” John told her and she smiled quickly before leaving. He hoped he wasn’t being too presumptuous; six months was a long time to wait.

John loped up the stairs two at a time, war-time habits keeping his steps quiet even on the creaky stairs. He came up on the landing and saw Sherlock quietly tuning a violin, humming to himself. 

“Sherlock.” John called his name, even though he was sure Sherlock knew he was there. Sherlock only tucked his violin elegantly under his chin and started playing. John frowned, not sure if he was being ignored or if it was something else. John recognized the basic tune of the music; a violin adaption of a popular Beatle’s song. 

And then it hit John, like a tank: that was the song that had been on the radio in the guard tower when he’d dragged Sherlock back there after getting caught. Sherlock had been “trying to think” and everyone kept harassing him by not turning the music off, even turning it up a little before John came back and stopped it.

Sherlock finished and looked at John for the first time, one eyebrow raised as if looking for approval. 

“Well, I wasn’t expecting that song.” John smiled. “You didn’t even know what it was if I remember correctly.”

Sherlock set the violin down with great care. “I learned.”

“And I appreciate it.” John walked forward, setting his backpack on the floor next to the sofa and walking up to Sherlock. “I didn’t know you played.”

Sherlock looked down at his violin, and John could see the fondness in his eyes. “For years.” He looked back over at John, and his lips curved into a wicked smile. He took a step closer to John and settled his hands on John’s hips. John wrapped one hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and they kissed languidly, reveling in the feeling of being close again.

When Sherlock pulled back they were both breathing heavily. “How long can you stay?” There was an undercurrent of worry in his voice. John cupped his check with one hand, then pushed it up, moving stray curls off Sherlock’s face.

“As long as you want me to,” John started, leaning forward until his face and Sherlock’s were only a hairs-breadth apart. “as long as long as you kick me out before Monday. And I’ll still have most of my other weekends to myself until I’m deployed again.”

“No you won’t.” Sherlock grabbed the back of John’s neck and pulled him in for another kiss, more frantic this time. John responded in kind, sliding one hand down Sherlock’s ribs and the other into his hair. He tugged gently on the mass of curls and Sherlock moaned. Sherlock traced his tongue over John’s lip, and he opened his mouth eagerly, their tongues colliding in swirls of pleasure.

John pulled back and Sherlock looked at him, confused. John smirked again and kissed his neck. Sherlock moaned loudly, the sound reverberating around the sitting room. John was suddenly glad they were alone.

He worked his way down to Sherlock’s collarbone, and then tugged the first button of his shirt free and sucked on the skin above Sherlock’s sternum. Anther button, another love bite. Sherlock’s knees sagged and John looped an arm around his back to keep him steady; Sherlock’s hands gripped his forearms hard. John smiled against Sherlock’s skin and undid another button. This time he swirled his tongue over salty skin and bit down, not hard enough to draw blood or break skin, but enough to leave a vivid bruise.

He ran his hands down along the detective’s ribs to his slender waist. Was it his imagination, or was Sherlock thinner than before? “You ought to eat more.” John breathed, hot air rolling over Sherlock’s skin.

“I was busy. It was a long case.” Sherlock muttered, irritated at the distraction, and John rehashing an old argument.

“Remind me to take you out to dinner sometime.” John purred, tracing his over Sherlock’s collar bone.  
Sherlock groaned even louder than before and fisted a hand in John’s short hair as best he could. “Bedroom. Now.” He muttered, voice gravelly with lust. John smiled as thoughts of what they’d do that night flitted through his mind. 

“God, I’ve missed you Sherlock.”

 

John woke before Sherlock the next morning. It was still early, not much sun was through the window yet. Sherlock had rolled over during the night, and John was now free to sit up. He pressed a kiss to the side of Sherlock’s head and got up. He fished his phone from his pants pocket, but left everything else as it was, closing the door on his way out. 

He padded down the hallway to grab his backpack before ducking into a bathroom to change into cammo and a gray t-shirt with the Royal Marine’s emblem on the back. He laced up his boots and tucked his phone in a sealed pocket.

He found paper, pencil, and tape and left a note for Sherlock on his door, figuring the great detective would see it. He stole a flat key from the pocket of Sherlock’s coat and went downstairs. He checked a clock and found that it was indeed early for most people, but he usually got up at 5:30 to run. Normally he’d run with his team, but he knew from past experience Sherlock didn’t like running very much if it wasn’t to chase down a criminal. John could only assume that happened often, as Sherlock was in good physical shape.

John stepped out into London’s brisk morning air and picked a direction to start running. His usual morning run consisted or over sixteen kilometers, always less than ninety minutes, but John decided to cut it down to twelve or thirteen in about sixty.

Running in the city was different than a military base, much to John’s surprise. The sights and sounds were different, of course, but so were the people. On a military base, most people just ignored you when you were running. But in a city – or at least this part of London – pedestrians often offered a greeting or words of encouragement. But not everyone, and John quickly started playing a game where he tried to guess who would say what if anything.

The man in the suit would ignore him, of course, John predicted. He ignored John so much that he had to alter his course to not run straight into him. The lady walking her dog would say good morning; John nodded as she did. The fellow jogger would offer some form of encouragement; John offered it back as they passed.

John’s phone went off suddenly, piercing the quiet morning with its shrill ring. John stopped and pulled it out. It was six o’clock and Sherlock was calling. 

“Good morning.” John answered it, slightly breathless.

“Where are you?” Sherlock demanded, sounding angry and worried at the same time. John paused, looking for a street sign.

“I don’t know; no street signs. But I know how to get back-“

“What are you doing?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Jogging. Didn’t you see my note?” John frowned; Sherlock was being touchy.

“I do now.” Sherlock’s voice relaxed; he sounded more relieved than anything.

“Sorry. Thought you’d see it.” John started jogging in place, hoping to keep his muscles warm.

“I’m also sorry. I… I guess I just…” John knew how hard it was for Sherlock to apologize, and realized he must have been really rattled.

“Its fine, Sherlock. I’m fine. Really. Royal Marine, remember?”

“Of course.” Sherlock said quickly, grateful for the out. 

“Sherlock, why’d you automatically assume something bad happened to me? Are you in some kind of trouble?” John’s soldier mind had kicked into gear, suddenly worried for Sherlock.

“I’m not in any trouble, John. But as a detective, I do have my fair share of enemies; I’ve never been close to anyone before and I was afraid one of them may have found out about you.” Sherlock’s words came out just like one of his deductions, but there was another undercurrent, this one more like embarrassment. 

“Sherlock, that’s- thank you. It’s nice to know you care so much about me.” John paused in his jogging, honestly touched.

“When do you expect to be back?” Sherlock’s voice was back to its usual brisk self. Of course.

“About a half-hour. I’ll see you then, yeah?”

“Of course.” And then he was gone. John smiled down at the phone and returned it to his pocket before starting again.

 

John finished his run in just under an hour. He let himself into the flat and climbed the stairs quickly. Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, fingers steepled under his chin, feet hanging off the edge. He looked up at John as he leaned against the doorframe.

“How far did you run?”

“About twelve kilometers. Why?”

Sherlock laid his head back down. “Twelve kilometers in one hour is fairly good.”

“Thanks.” John laughed and walked forward, leaning down to kiss Sherlock. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s neck and pulled him close, deepening the kiss. He   
pulled back suddenly and pressed his nose into John’s neck. John felt the tell-tail tickle of air rushing against his skin.

“You smell like London.” Sherlock murmured, dragging his nose along the skin under John’s chin. “And sweat.” Sherlock took another breath. “And sex.”

John shivered in pleasure, but started to pull away. “Then I need to go shower.”

Sherlock’s arms tightened around his neck. “Don’t. I like it.” Sherlock pulled John down farther, and he was forced to brace his knee against the sofa.

“Sherlock…” John moaned as Sherlock licked a broad strip along his neck. “I really need to-“ His voice cut off as Sherlock tongued at his pulse point, then started sucking. He still pulled at Sherlock’s arm, but his resistance was fading. Sherlock slide a hand under his shirt, tracing the lines of his abs and chest before gently plucking at his nipple. John gasped, his hand moving from his knee to Sherlock’s head.

“Don’t go.” Sherlock whispered against John’s skin, moving slowly to lick and suck at John’s ear. 

“Fine.” John muttered, voice rough. “I won’t.”

 

“Any pans for today?” John asked casually an hour later. He wouldn’t mind following Sherlock around London looking for a killer, as long as it didn’t interfere with dinner. 

“Lestrade texted me while you were running; said there was something I needed to see.”

“Hmmm. What was it?”

“I don’t know. We should go find out.” Sherlock pushed himself off the bed and started for the door. John rolled onto his back lazily.

“You’ll go first, then?” John was referring to the shower, but he had no doubt Sherlock would know that.

Sherlock turned back to him, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It would take too long. We’ll have to shower together.”

John grinned back and pushed himself up, following Sherlock to the bathroom.


	2. Murder Most Foul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I want to thank everyone that left Kudos on the first half. You made my heart burst.  
> Second, I want to remind everyone that this is un-Bata'd and not Brit-picked, and my first attempt at the whole experience. So criticism is welcome. I'll stop talking now.

They were showered, dressed, and out of the flat just after seven. Which, John was sure, had to be some kind of record. As Sherlock hailed a cab, John bought a sandwich from the shop bellow the flat. He didn’t complain when Sherlock arbitrarily tore off pieces to eat in the cab.

They ended up at the docks, and followed the sirens and lights to the crime scene. The majority of the people and cars were clustered around a warehouse of some kind. Police tape blocked their path, a woman stood guarding. 

“So, are they going to let me in?” John asked, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He had no clue how cold London would be – at least, he didn’t remember it being that cold – and the only jacket he’d brought was his uniform one.

“Of course they will.” Sherlock said, his tone implying the rest of the sentence: don’t be an idiot. “I’m allowed a colleague, surely.”

“Oh, have I been demoted, then?” John joked with a smile. Sherlock only scowled at him.

“Well, look who decided to show up. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.” The woman – black with curly dark hair – said to Sherlock, her voice thick with derision. John had no clue who she was until he noticed the radio in her hand. Probably a sergeant or something, John decided. He wasn’t surprised those at NSY treated Sherlock that way; that’d been him at one point.

“Always, Sally.” Sherlock responded easily, ducking under the tape and holding it up for John. He moved forward, but ‘Sally’ stopped him. 

“Ah, who’s this?”

“My colleague.” Sherlock said simply, then looked at John.

“A colleague?! How do you get a colleague?” ‘Sally’ sounded incredulous. John glanced at her and crossed under the tape. He followed Sherlock into the warehouse.

“Now, remember, it’s a crime scene. I don’t want it contaminated.” A man dressed in a blue paper suit came out, his voice high and nasally, voice just as caustic as ‘Sally’s’ had been.

“Give my apologies to your wife, Anderson.” Sherlock managed to sound both sincere and mocking at the same time, completely blowing by the man. John suppressed a smirk and followed him into the warehouse.

“Um, excuse me, but this is a crime scene. You’re going to have to go back outside.” A tall man with silver hair came appeared at John’s side, and hand on his shoulder. John started, taking an instinctive step back and curling one hand into a fist, eyes locked on the man who didn’t seem to notice his extreme reaction. *

“Sorry?” He asked.

“It’s a crime scene. You can’t be in here, you have to wait outside. I’m sorry, but-“ The man started to explain – or what he must have though passed as explaining – when Sherlock interrupted him.

“Don’t be thick, Lestrade; he’s with me.” Sherlock had turned and came back to them. “Since you thought he was here by himself, I assume the victim is military?” The man, Lestrade, looked from Sherlock back to John, then to Sherlock again. “Who is he?”

“I said he’s with me.” Sherlock emphasized his words. “Where’s the body?”

Lestrade looked from one to the other for another moment, then shrugged and gestured for them to follow him. He led to the other side of the warehouse, around a maze of shipping containers and boxes. 

“Here’s the body. It’s pretty bad, just to warn you.” Lestrade walked to the corner and gestured, a grim look on his face as he looked around the corner.

Sherlock and John rounded the corner themselves, and John saw he was right. As a field medic for a group of Commandos, John saw a lot of bad injuries. A lot of them. But the body in front of him had been almost completely crushed by a falling shipping container. It looked like it had knocked him down and landed on his chest, probably flattening every bone there. His eyes were closed, and there was a smaller pool of blood behind his head; maybe if he was lucky, John thought, he’d been unconscious for the worst of it.

John also saw why Lestrade thought he was here for the body; the man was wearing a military uniform, blue cammo. John stepped around Sherlock and closer, leaning down to try and read what patches were visible. 

“What branch?” Sherlock asked, coming up next to him.

“I don’t know; can’t see much. I think it looks like Royal Navy, but I can’t be sure.” John stood and walked over to the other side. 

“Do you ever wear blue cammo?” Sherlock never took his eyes off John.

John shook his head. “No, we stick to green or brown.”

“Not even for a water operation?”

“If it was pure water, it wouldn’t be us. Or this guy; he’s a dock worker. Probably stationed here to help check imports or something.” John shrugged, it was the best he could do.

“Cause of death?” Sherlock continued.

“Um, I think he had a heart attack.” John said straight-faced, and Sherlock scowled at him. “Blunt force trauma, Sherlock. Obviously. He probably had a concussion, too, but that didn’t have time to kill him.”

Sherlock turned to Lestrade as soon as John was done. “What was he carrying when you found it?”

John looked at Lestrade, not sure if Sherlock was being serious or not; how could he know if the man had been carrying something?

Lestrade merely looked tired. “A cardboard box. It’s over there. There’s a post-it note on it with your name and address.”

“Why did you move it?” Sherlock sounded irate. “I needed it where it was.”

“Well, sorry.” Lestrade shrugged, not sounding very apologetic. 

Sherlock walked over to the table, followed closely by John. The cardboard box looked normal enough, a yellow post-it note stuck to the top. Sherlock pulled it off, examining the handwriting before putting it on the table next to him. The box itself had a shipping label attached: it had first gone through the mail.

Sherlock paid only cursory attention to the label, instead opting to open the box. The cardboard flaps making up the lid had been layered in such a way as the box stayed closed. Inside, the first thing John saw was a lot of salt, and then two human ears. 

The ears looked like they’d been hacked off and simply stuffed into the box. Dried blood covered the salt, which, John supposed, was the point. The salt would absorb all moisture and keep the flesh mostly intact for longer. 

“A poor man’s embalming technique.” He muttered, looking up at Sherlock, who nodded in agreement.

“Has anyone disturbed the contents?” He asked Lestrade, who came up on his left.

“Yeah, when we found the box they were buried. We went digging to see if we could tell what was in it.”

“Who?” Sherlock asked, voice clipped.

“Now don’t go kill him, but…” Lestrade paused before continuing. “Anderson.”

Sherlock seemed to completely ignore him, moving onto the next question. “Where was the box when you found it?”

“Next to his left hand. It was like he was carrying it and dropped it right before the crate fell on him.”

Sherlock nodded, muttering something that sounded like “left-handed” and turning away. John looked at Lestrade, who only shrugged. 

“Does he have any family?” Sherlock was facing the corpse again.

“Yeah, a brother in law. We’re bringing him into the station now. He should be there by the time we get back. You want to talk to him?”

“I need to.” Sherlock said simply, turning away from the crime scene and heading for the door. John ran a few steps before falling in pace with him. 

“What was the deal with the ears, then?” John asked as they exited the warehouse.

Before Sherlock could answer, though, Lestrade dashed up behind them. “Sherlock, remember you need to sign the form again. The thing your brother worked out. Come on, let’s do that.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Wait here, John. I’ll be back in a moment. Just need to take care of some-“ Sherlock made a disgusted face. “-paperwork.”

John laughed and watched the two walk off, content to wait. He heard footsteps behind him, and turned face to face with Sally. 

“So. You and Holmes are colleagues. How’d that happen?”

John shrugged and decided to tell the truth. “On a case.”

“Have you known him long?” Sally pressed casually, though John could see she was driving at something.

“I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

Sally looked somewhat affronted, though she didn’t stop. “Maybe not, but I’m just trying to warn you. If you haven’t known him long, you don’t know what he’s like.” John opened his mouth to protest – Sherlock was a great man – but Sally kept talking. “I mean, we don’t pay him to do this, he thinks it’s fun. Gets off on it. And he’s a psychopath; psychopaths get bored. One day, we’re all going to be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes is going to be the one who put it there.”

“Do people usually assume he’s the murderer?” John asked casually, and Sally looked upset he wasn’t more impressed by her speech. “Because, the way I see it, if he killed someone, you’d be lucky to even find a body, much less the killer.”

“He wants to show off, not kill someone. The goal is to make us all look stupid.” Sally said with some passion.

“And where will that get him?” John asked. “Like you said, he doesn’t get paid for this. What’s the goal? Vanity? I don’t think he’s that vain of a person. And I’ve known him for a while. So thanks for the warning, but no thanks.”

John turned away from her just as Sherlock was coming back. They left the crime scene together in silence. The had to go back to the front of the dockyard if they hoped to get a cab, so they had a fair amount of walking in front of them; Sherlock refused to take a police car.

“What did she tell you?” Sherlock asked suddenly, his voice even, but when John looked at him he could see the man was taut as a bowstring.

“She said you were a psychopath, that you got off on finding killers.” John’s voice was casual, not cold like Sherlock’s and he wasn’t tense at all.

“And?” Sherlock asked. When John didn’t respond, he looked at him. “What do you think?”

“You’re not violent, which makes you a sociopath, not a psychopath. And if you like catching killers, I don’t see why anyone’s complaining.” John shrugged and slid his   
hand into Sherlock’s. Both men normally stayed away from public displays of affection, but who was going to see them in an empty dockyard? 

“Most people don’t understand.” Sherlock sounded hesitant. **

“I’m a Commando, remember. I understand.”

They walked in silence, merely taking comfort in being together again. John’s eyes flicked over the containers, probing shadows and guessing at corners. He did it unconsciously, and hadn’t even noticed how tense he was until Sherlock mentioned it.

“I guess I’m just used to Afghanistan.” John said with a shrug. “A place like this, unsecure…” John shook his head with a shiver. “It’d be bad.”

“Oh?” Sherlock tilted his head, always eager to hear about John’s experiences in Afghanistan. John had asking him why once, and Sherlock had explained he was always looking for new information.

“Yeah. So many shadows and nooks and crannies and everything; all of them places to hide. If you found an empty container or two, you could set up a command post or an ambush and no one would ever know. Plus, the attackers would have the high ground every time. That’s dangerous.” John pointed at examples of each thing in turn and Sherlock listened intently.

“’A good place to hide.’” Sherlock repeated thoughtfully.

John nodded again. “Yeah. Why? Need to hide from someone?”

“No, but you’re not the only soldier in the city. It’s just good knowledge to have.” Sherlock dismissed his question.

John’s face lit up as something occurred to him. “You know, maybe that’s why the sailor was here. Maybe he was trying to hide from whoever had sent him the ears-“

“He was here to investigate the salt before coming to me for help.” Sherlock interrupted him. “Close, John, but not quite.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“The post-it note was not a shipping label, merely a way to allow him to remember the address before he came to me. He was shipped a pair of women’s ears, he needed   
a detective of some sort. The salt in the box was the same type as what was in the containers.” At John’s confused look, Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, the containers were full of salt; didn’t you read the labels?”

“No.” John said, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Since he worked at the docks, he knew that salt had just been imported, and as a worker, he’d have access, it probably was a simple matter to get inside.”

“So who killed him?” John asked, cutting to the heart of the issue.

Sherlock looked somewhat befuddled. “The container.”

John gestured exasperatedly. “Yeah, but who pushed the container onto him?”

“No one.” Sherlock paused, looking at John’s face carefully. “It was an accident; the dock is a dangerous place. You could tell by the placement of the container on his body and the domino effect of containers above. It was a coincidence.”

“I wouldn’t have expected you to believe in coincidences.” John stated.

Sherlock only shrugged, staring straight ahead again. “When you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that before, at Baskerville. Remember how well that went?” John laughed.

“I hadn’t eliminated the impossible yet. I wasn’t done that time.” Sherlock defended himself.

“And you have considered every option for this? In, what, the past five minutes?” John made a show of checking his watch.

“Yes.” Sherlock stated like it should have been simple. John laughed again. Of course.

 

They reached the front gate without incident and caught a cab to the Met. Lestrade was already back by the time they arrived, and they were able to talk to the brother in law right away.

"Megan's been missing for six days. We reported it after 48 hours, of course, but no one's found anything yet. We were all so worried." The man, Joshua Vietal, was clearly distraught. They'd learned the sailor's name was Petty Officer Andrew Cushing, and that he had two younger sisters, Megan and Alice.

"How long had you and 'Megan' been married?" Lestrade asked Vietal.

"Six months, no longer than that." Sherlock muttered from behind Lestrade. He'd refused to sit, instead chosen to pace behind Lestrade. Sergeant Sally Donovan - John had finally learned her full name - sat next to Lestrade. John just stood in the corner and watched.

After Sherlock had spoken, everyone had looked at him. Donovan and Lestrade in irritation, Vietal in amazement. "How-how could you know that?"

"You've recently lost a fair amount of weight, sometime within the past few months as you have yet to get clothes that fit you properly, and your wedding ring is also now too large. The ring itself is made out of silver but not noticeably tarnished, therefore still new as you would not remember to clean it. So, too large but clean ring, recent weight loss, six months at the most. Was this her first marriage?" Sherlock talked quickly while explaining his deductions, and continued pacing. He stopped and rounded on Vietal quickly when asking his own question.

"I, uh, yes." Vietal stuttered, not changing topics as seamlessly as Sherlock. "But she was engaged once before, to a man named Jim Browner. It was over a year ago, I think."

"How was Browner employed?" Sherlock snapped. "At the docks?"

"I-I don't know. She never really talked about him. Why?" Vietal stammered. Sherlock growled in frustration and swept out the door. John hurried to follow.

"You could have been a little nicer, eh?" John had to jog a few steps to catch up to the detective, who didn't spare him a glance as they walked along, too absorbed in his phone.

"Nice takes too long." Sherlock looked up, slipping his phone into his pocket. "Need to talk to the sister."

"Maybe we should have stayed and asked for directions then?" John suggested as they exited the Met.

"I already have her address." Sherlock said, raising a hand to hail a cab. "Asking would have-"

"-taken too long, yes I know." John finished. Sherlock scowled at him. "No need to get mopey, love." John laughed, making Sherlock blush slightly. A cab raced by and he raised his hand again to flag a different one.

"But seriously, though, what do you expect to learn from the sister? You think this Browner guy had something to do with it?" John sobered up.

"I think Browner had everything to do with it." Sherlock responded. "He- YOU'RE ALL IDIOTS!" Sherlock interrupted himself as another cab drove by. "Why won't they pick me up?"

"Well, they certainly won't do it while you're insulting them." John moved up to stand next to Sherlock. They could see a cab approaching. John buttoned one button on his jacket, just enough to make sure everyone could clearly see he was military, and raised one hand. The cab slowed and pulled over. John unbuttoned his jacket and smiled at Sherlock, who only scowled and climbed in, muttering something about 'military heroes.'

 

Alice Cushing's apartment was in an up-scape part of town, all glass and steel, clearly newly built. It was right on the cleanest part of the Themes.

"Bit beyond my pay role." John muttered, looking up at the five-story building. "How much do you think it costs?"

"Fifty thousand pounds per month, easily." Sherlock responded with a shrug. He made a beeline for the buzzers. It only took him a moment to find the one he wanted and another moment for Alice Cushing to respond.

"`Ello?"

"Miss. Cushing, my name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm working with Scotland Yard in the investigation of your sister's abduction and your brother's murder. Might I come up?"

"Oh, yeah. Of course." The buzzer went off and Sherlock and John disappeared into the building.

"Are we really working with the police?" John asked as they waited for the elevator. "Or are we more, just, investigating for them?"

Sherlock considered the question for a moment, looking at John with his 'slightly confused' face. "What's the difference?"

John only laughed and didn't say anything else until they reached Alice Cushing's apartment.

The apartment itself was very modern and stylishly decorated. It was clean, no dust, but not very clear - clothes, dirty dishes, magazines, and miles of other junk littered the furniture and floors. It was worse than Sherlock's mess.

Alice Cushing herself fit the room perfectly. She was tall for a woman, dressed fashionably but casually. She clearly had expensive taste, as all her clothes were name brand.

"Sorry about the mess." She said as she sauntered over to the couch. "I wasn't expecting visitors. A police officer had already talked to me and I didn't know anything so he said I didn't have to go to the station."

Her every movement just made her look sexy and alluring, and she never took her eyes of Sherlock. John immediately didn't like her.

"Your sister's previous engagement to Jim Browner." Sherlock stated simply. "Who broke it off?"

"Well, officially Megan did. I told her Jim was cheating on her, and she ended it. Though, honestly, I think she was looking for an excuse to end it. I think she had fallen out of love with him by that time. And then he left. Pity."

"Was he cheating on her?" John asked. Alice merely smiled viscously.

"He wasn't was he?" Sherlock asked, comprehension dawning on his face. "But you wanted him to. You loved him."

"Ohhh." Alice pouted. "Love's such a strong word, Mr. Holmes. Let's just say, I found him very attractive. Very attractive. When Megan pushed him away, I was there for him. But he didn't want me. He just... up and left."

"Does your sister know what you did?" John asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. He was disliking this woman more and more every time she opened her mouth.

"No. She's... well, let's just say, not the brightest." Alice smiled again and looked at Sherlock up through her eyelashes "Unlike you, I think. You're very clever, aren't you?"

There was a moment of awkward silence where Alice looked amused, Sherlock looked lost, and John looked somewhere between embarrassed and angry.

"Where did Browner work?" Sherlock finally asked, seeming to snap out of some kind of trance.

"At the docks I think. He was certainly strong enough. Tall, dark, and handsome too. Just like you."

"Does he know what you did?" Sherlock ignored her flirting completely and she looked a little put out.

"He might suspect. He's not quite the idiot my sister is, but he never said anything to me."

"Thank you, Miss. Cushing. You've been very helpful." Sherlock turned suddenly and started for the door, John following quickly. "Sorry to disturb you."

"Oh, feel free to disturb me at any time, Mr. Holmes. Any time." And then John closed, or rather slammed the door and they started down the hall. John didn't take his eyes off Sherlock as the walked. He normally wasn't a jealous man, but he'd never been in a relationship like this before.

"You can stop staring at me John. I'm still yours, I promise." Sherlock said, and John could here the smirk in his words. John blushed and looked away.

"Did you learn anything useful?" He asked.

Sherlock nodded and called the elevator. "Much. Browner, as a dockworker, would probably be able to gain access to the imported salt he needed for the ears. The ears most likely belong to a now-deceased Megan Cushing, killed by her ex-fiancé Jim Browner. He was angry she didn't listen to him and broke off the marriage." He paused as they stepped into the elevator.

"Do you think he knew what Alice had done?" John questioned.

"Absolutely. The shipping label on the box was to this address. I think Petty Officer Cushing came for a visit, found the box, opened it, and left with it so-as not to upset his little sister."

"But then why not kill Alice? She was the one really responsible for the breakup." John argued as they stepped out of the elevator and crossed the lobby.

"Megan was guilty of not listening or trusting Browner. Alice was guilty of just being a seductress. They are both guilty, but Megan, as the one who broke Browner's heart, is seen as the more guilty party." Sherlock stepped up to the curb as if to flag a taxi, then paused and looked at John.

John smiled and joined him. "Where to next?"

"Baker street. I'll text Lestrade what I know and he can take care of things from there." Sherlock responded, and John could hear the click of the keys on his phone.

He smiled and raised a hand. "Taxi!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case is based off the original story by the same name: The Adventure of the Cardboard Box by Sir. Author Conan Doyle. 
> 
> *John acts the way he does because he’s with the Royal Marine Commando’s, so I imagine his temperament a little different than what Moffat gave him. Plus, he just got back from Afghanistan. 
> 
> **Sherlock’s in what I’m calling his first relationship; the person he cares about completely and without pause (for the first time). As it’s new to him – and I think he’s a perfectionist – he’s going to have lots of moments of uncertainty in this. I take this from personal experience.


End file.
